I don't want to be the Pied Piper of fast food.

Host: The boardwalk at dusk stretched endlessly, its planks creaking beneath the weight of the tide-salted wind. The ocean murmured in the background — steady, patient, eternal. Neon lights flickered to life above burger stands, cotton candy carts, and arcade facades, painting the air in soft reds and electric blues.

At the end of the pier, where the crowd thinned and the sounds of laughter drifted away into sea foam, Jack sat on a weathered bench, a half-eaten burger in his hand. His eyes were fixed on the dark horizon, where the last of the daylight bled into the sea.

Jeeny leaned against the railing nearby, the wind tugging at her hair. She held a milkshake, condensation dripping down the cup. Her expression was thoughtful — half amusement, half melancholy.

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “Stephen Hillenburg once said — ‘I don’t want to be the Pied Piper of fast food.’”

Jack: (snorting softly) “That’s the creator of SpongeBob, right? Makes sense. He built an empire out of a talking fry cook — and probably realized the irony halfway through.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. He made something pure and joyful, and the world tried to turn it into merchandise, meal deals, and mascots.”

Jack: “It’s the curse of art in a hungry world. Everything meaningful gets turned into marketing eventually.”

Jeeny: “And Hillenburg saw it coming. He wasn’t mocking the industry; he was warning it. He didn’t want laughter to become a commercial.”

Host: The wind howled briefly, scattering paper napkins down the pier. The sound of seagulls cut through the air — harsh, insistent. The smell of fried food drifted from the boardwalk behind them, rich but hollow, the kind of scent that fills the stomach and empties the soul.

Jack: “You know, it’s funny. The Pied Piper led children away with music — Hillenburg led them toward imagination. But in the end, the corporations wanted the same thing: followers, not thinkers.”

Jeeny: “And that’s the danger of influence. The moment you realize people are listening, you have to decide if you’re leading them somewhere good or just… leading them.”

Jack: “You think he regretted it? Creating something that became bigger than him?”

Jeeny: “No. But I think he understood the weight of it. When millions of kids quote your character every day, your work stops being a cartoon — it becomes culture. And culture feeds on itself.”

Host: The waves below crashed louder, more insistent, as if echoing her words. The lights from the amusement park reflected on the water — pinks, greens, yellows — shimmering like fleeting dreams.

Jack: “You know what’s wild? He worked as a marine biologist before animation. He loved the ocean — the real one, not the one under glass or on a screen.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s what he was really afraid of — watching his love for the ocean turn into a logo. The ocean reduced to fries and soda cups.”

Jack: “The Pied Piper of consumption.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Art as advertising. Joy as a product.”

Host: The sound of laughter drifted from down the boardwalk — kids running with ice cream cones, their sneakers slapping against the wood. The moment was beautiful and bittersweet, the world both innocent and endlessly sold.

Jack: “It’s the paradox, isn’t it? You create something from the heart, and the world takes it to the bank.”

Jeeny: “And somehow, you’re supposed to be grateful.”

Jack: (quietly) “You think it’s possible to make something pure anymore?”

Jeeny: “It is — but you can’t control what happens to it once it leaves you. The art you make for love will always be stolen by someone who sees profit instead of purpose.”

Jack: “Then why make it?”

Jeeny: (smiling) “Because even stolen beauty still shines. Hillenburg’s work taught kids to care about the ocean — even if it came wrapped in plastic toys.”

Host: A long silence fell between them. The sea stretched endlessly, whispering its ancient language — one that didn’t need marketing or merchandise.

Jack: “You know, I think that’s the quiet tragedy of creators. The world rewards what sells, not what saves.”

Jeeny: “And yet, the ones who save — they keep creating anyway. Because they know their purpose isn’t profit. It’s connection.”

Jack: “He didn’t want to be the Pied Piper. He wanted to be the tide — steady, honest, cleansing.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The tide doesn’t chase followers. It just returns — again and again — reminding us what’s real.”

Host: The lights along the pier flickered, reflecting off the puddles. A young couple walked by, laughing, holding hands and sharing a cone of fries. The world spun on — half wonder, half commerce.

Jeeny: “You know, there’s something almost spiritual about what Hillenburg did. He created a world that reminded us of kindness, simplicity, absurdity — things that can’t be monetized.”

Jack: “And the fact that he fought to keep it that way — that’s what makes him rare.”

Jeeny: “Artists like him don’t just make shows. They make escape routes from the noise.”

Jack: “Escape routes that advertisers keep trying to pave over.”

Jeeny: “But somehow, the imagination always finds a crack to grow through.”

Host: The camera would pull back — Jack and Jeeny small figures at the end of the long, glimmering pier. The boardwalk lights blinked behind them like an artificial galaxy, but ahead was only ocean — vast, unbranded, eternal.

And in the hush of waves and the neon hum of the city behind, Stephen Hillenburg’s words rose like a whisper against the wind — a quiet manifesto for creators everywhere:

That true art doesn’t lead people —
it frees them.

That not every song must sell,
not every joy must advertise.

And that the worth of a creator
lies not in how many follow,
but in how deeply they feel.

For in a world chasing profit,
to create something pure —
and refuse to sell your soul —
is the greatest rebellion of all.